The Stag Night
by oriharasinformer
Summary: It's John's stag night, he and Sherlock have just been kicked out of Tessa's house but how should they hide from the police?


Sherlock and I had just been kicked out of Tessa's, that client's, house. The police must have been on their way but of course, we were way out of it. Way out of it. Sherlock stumbled into an alley, in attempts to hide and dragged me in, giggling. It was dark, it wreaked of sex, alcohol, cheap perfume and it was a tight squeeze but Sherlock was warm and smelled wonderful, despite the bitter beer breath he had. He was too warm, his heart beating too fast, too relaxed. He pulled me into him so we could squeeze into the tightest part of the alley and we rubbed against each other as we made our way to the end. Why wasn't he running, when he could easily have lost the police, even when drunk? His navigation is flawless. I wondered as I was pressed against his chest. I could feel his heart hammering in his chest still and his cheeks were flushed. Probably the drink. Our faces were almost pressed together because of the lack of space already, and Sherlock was slowly tipping his head forward. It was bitter at first, the beer, before I could feel just how hot his mouth was, how damp his lips were and the sensation of him pushing his tongue against my own lips. I was faintly aware of him pushing myself into him by my ass; my body was numb, except my lips, as he caught them with his teeth, they were all too sensitive. The consulting detective was kissing, sucking his down my neck, that was going to leave a mark, as his hands found their way to my nipples, rubbing, teasing and-  
"Aaah," my sharp intake of breath followed, piercing the night's silence because Sherlock had lightly pinched my nipple. If he wasn't such a sociopath, women and men alike would be all over him, like my hands were, roaming, stroking, caught in his hair. I wasn't aware of my shirt coming over my head but I did notice the damp, warm feeling that followed. Sherlock sucked my nipple. My right one. I giggled because I'd noticed that and tugged on his hair downwards, more sharply than I'd meant to. There was a deep, quiet moan and he definitely growled in his throat and bit in.  
"Oh! N-no, Sherlock-" I was interrupted by myself as he tugged with his teeth and realised our arousals were touched, pressed together through our trousers. I didn't notice my own trousers slip down but the contrast of the warmth of his hand through the cotton of my underwear and the chilly bite of night air on my bare legs wasn't easy to ignore. He toyed, it was the only thing I could feel, other than the tingle of where his mouth had brushed against my skin and I shuddered in anticipation, releasing another quiet moan. Too drunk to care about my dignity, I was begging. He smirked at me.  
"Oh, no, John. I can't do that yet," he paused, "ask me nicely." There was a grin spread across his face and I barely noticed his slurring. I nodded before asking:  
"Sherlock, please," I whispered, "will you please-"  
"I can't hear you." He said in his sing-song, playful voice.  
"Please, Sherlock, I need you to-, to give me a handjob." His pale, watery-blue eyes lit up and glittered. His hands got to work, whipping off my underwear and teasing. He ran a finger along the underside of my dick. Then two along the top, I curved up to meet them as they ran all the way to the end, catching under my head on the way up. He made little circles with his finger along the tip and I groaned, about to beg, again, what little dignity I had left strewn aside. He wrapped his right hand around the tip and brought his hand down. The alley was so tight, my length was practically against his stomach. He brought his hand back up and spat. The lubrication it offered was great. I fell back, leaning against the alley wall, my body at an angle. It pushed my hips up higher so they could move in time with his strokes. All I could focus on was the feeling, my body buzzing and I lost myself in his rhythmic strokes. My body tensed as orgasm approached, my desperate gasps and pants were suddenly punctured by the wail of a police siren. I came, my fluids coating the back-alley wall. He was still wearing all his clothes, I realised. Why is that important? I'd figure that out in the morning. I pushed back against the opposite wall and recovered, the sirens ever closer.  
"Well, Sherlock," I started.  
He was gone.


End file.
